Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3) (12 page)

“A conference?”

“Something for work.” Gabe and Mindy met while he was in jail. Mindy was a student then but had since become certified in social work. While I had yet to meet her, I had some opinions about her future in social work.

Dale walked Gabe to the door, slapping him on the back and reaching forward to open it for him. “Come again, son. It’s good to talk to you.”

Watching Dale’s half-smile as Gabe headed to his truck, I realized what my husband liked about him. Until his accident, Dale’s days had been spent with manly men who advised each other on fixing their cars and lived in a world of machines and machismo.

Dale now lived with two women in a place of soft voices and dim lights. In the first few months after his injury, his friends had come to visit, but in time their lives had gone on in the old way, the way Dale could no longer participate in.

Gabe wasn’t exactly an old chum, but he was male and he loved talking cars. I resolved to make him more welcome next time, not as an employee, but as Dale’s friend.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Retta

Saturday morning was cloudy with rain off and on, so I decided the Isleys needed a little retail therapy. I drove them to the mall, announcing that everybody got one completely new outfit. Iris expressed doubts about accepting gifts, but I told her, “I love shopping for girls. You have to let me do this.”

Allport’s mall isn’t much, but it has a couple of stores that appeal to the young set. Iris chose a longish denim skirt, a plain white top, and lace-up shoes. I’d have to work on her fashion sense.

Seeing Pansy petting some glittery jeans on a table, I asked, “Do you like those?”

She removed her hand. “We’re not allowed to wear pants.”

“If you like the jeans, get them,” I said. “We can always exchange them if you decide you’d rather have something else.”

Shifting through the pile, she chose a pair with rhinestones on the back pockets. “Are these okay?”

I chuckled. “They are if you think they are.”

It was probably wicked of me to undermine their parents’ rules, but I had a feeling it was Ben who’d made them up, and Ben was dead. If their mother was still living, she might accept that a pair of jeans wouldn’t result in her middle daughter’s ruin. And if Rose was dead, as Barbara Ann was pretty sure she was, the girls’ world was going to change drastically. A pair of jeans wouldn’t matter.

Daisy was fun to buy for. She was excited by all the choices offered, and she looked darling in everything. In the end we bought yellow leggings with a matching yellow-and-navy overdress with ruffles around the bottom.

“Can I wear my new stuff now?” she asked.

“Certainly. It’s fun to get new clothes, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Momma makes us things, but I only get them when they’re too small for Pansy.”

Having been the littlest sister, I know how boring it is to wear your siblings’ hand-me-downs. I’d had my share of new clothes as a kid, but I’d also had my share of Barb and Faye’s castoffs. It’s a pain to not get to choose your own style.

Along with buying for the girls, I picked up some items that would look stunning in Barbara Ann’s office. I even went with her taste, which is okay though a little outdated. I chose two hurricane lamps in Victorian blues and lavenders and a set of vases with genteel ladies and gentlemen in silhouette around the bases. I added some pillows for the window casings, to soften the perpendicular lines.

Knowing she’d see the improvement if the items were in place when she walked in Monday morning, I planned to slip in and add the items myself. While I wished I could be there when she saw how much more comfortable the room looked, I wanted it to be a surprise.

Laden with our purchases, we made our way to the small food court. I let each girl choose a shop and buy her own lunch. After much discussion, Iris and Pansy went off to get pizza. Daisy stayed with me, and we visited the A&W for foot-longs and fries.

Once we’d eaten the main meal, I suggested dessert. Iris went for a frozen yogurt while Pansy got a root beer float. Daisy and I chose cones with sprinkles. Returning to our tables we licked, spooned, and slurped in relaxed ease. Watching them, I thought how resilient children are. Though they looked like any kids might on a shopping trip, they’d been through a lot. They had more trials to face, and I was pleased to provide them an island of comfort between their scary past and their sad future.

“If we were home right now, we’d be working in the garden,” Pansy said, stirring her drink with her straw. Iris jerked slightly as if reminding herself not to enjoy the moment too much.

“Do you like living on the farm, Pansy?”

“I like animals.” Frowning, she asked, “You’re sure they’re okay?”

“My sister’s sons are out there. They’ll see to them.”

“And the garden?” Iris asked. “It needs a lot of attention or the weeds will choke out the little plants.”

“They’ll see to that, too,” I told her, hoping Cramer, Bill, and Carla knew carrots from pigweed. I doubted they did, but it was no longer Iris’ job to worry about it.

“Are they living in our house?” Daisy asked.

I was honest. “Someone has to be there to see to everything.”

She nodded, her eyes downcast. It had to be hard knowing someone new was in what the girls thought of as home.

“We tried to take care of things after Mom left, but we were getting low on feed.” Pansy glanced at Iris. “We told Ben about it, but he didn’t act like he cared.”

Daisy wasn’t keeping up with her ice cream, and I foresaw disaster for the new outfit. Noticing, Iris took the cone from Daisy’s hand and licked around the outside to remove the melted part. When she handed it back, Daisy took a lick and said, “Ben was busy, ’cause he was fixing up the cabin for us.”

“It’s not like we asked him to.” Pansy’s tone was resentful.

“It was nice of him, though,” Iris said, her tone so mom-like I smiled. “He made us a playhouse, and we should be grateful.”

“Ben was remodeling the cabin for you?” Going out of his way for the girls seemed out of character.

“He kept buying stuff and hauling it down there, but it was a big secret,” Pansy said. “We weren’t allowed down there, but when he finally let us see it, it didn’t look that different.”

Iris was still trying to be grateful. “He fixed the door, and he built bunk beds.”

Pansy shrugged. “It didn’t seem like it was worth the time he spent down there. A new door, windows, and bunks. That’s all.”

“There’s another door inside the bed.” Daisy was doing better at keeping up with the drips.

I looked at Iris, who seemed surprised. “What door is that, Daisy?”

“You can’t see it unless you move the mattress,” She gave her cone another lick. “It’s a trapper door, like in
Aladdin
.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Faye

Retta called just after lunch. Dale had gone back to his workshop, and I was baking cookies. Relaying the girls’ story and Daisy’s mention of a “trapper door,” she strongly suggested I investigate. Setting the whole sheet of cookies in the fridge, I headed back to the farm. I figured Daisy had probably misinterpreted some hardware in the bunk and concluded it was a door, but I didn’t mind satisfying Retta’s curiosity. I’d meant to go out there that afternoon anyway, to check on my horses and see Bill and Carla, who’d arrived from Chicago in the early morning hours.

I parked in the driveway next to Bill’s ancient CRV, which was packed to the roof with boxes and tubs. Attached was a rental trailer containing what looked like the rest of their belongings.

Cramer came out of the barn, carrying an empty bucket. “Hey!” he called out. The knee-high rubber boots he wore were a wise choice for a barnyard in spring. Over a gate post hung a flannel shirt he’d shed, since the afternoon sun had become quite warm.

“How are you coping with the menagerie?”

He shrugged. “Almost everybody’s been fed—not that it will keep the peacocks from complaining.”

As if on cue, we heard a cry that sounded a lot like “Help!” The male came strutting out from behind the shed, very much the master of all he surveyed, at least in his little pea-brain. Next came the hens, a few steps behind, like repressed wives.

The house was silent. “Are Bill and Carla up?”

“Haven’t seen them. It was almost dawn when they got in.”

“I’ll look in on the horses first,” I said.

Nodding, Cramer went on to the shed with his bucket. Side-stepping barnyard hazards, I made my way to the barn and, squinting into its cool exterior, approached the horse stalls. “Want to explore a little?” I asked.

Snapping a lead rope onto the halter, I led first one then the other to the paddock attached to the barn. Anni-Frid did a little dance of joy when she stepped out into the sun. Agnetha followed more sedately, but she shook her head as I released her, looking around at the new surroundings.

I spent a few minutes with them, letting them get used to me in this new setting and wondering if I might possibly ride after thirty years out of the saddle. I didn’t want my horses to forget their training, but I couldn’t help but notice how high their backs were off the ground. A fall at my age wouldn’t be pretty. Might the Isley girls come out and exercise them? That would give them a chance to see their former home again, and I wouldn’t have to risk my neck—or a hip.

“Hey, Mom!” I turned to see Bill coming out of the house, dressed in rumpled sweats. Meeting him halfway, I embraced him. Like Cramer, Bill is tall, but he carries less weight. He’d grown a beard, and I gave it a playful tug. “New look?”

“I was going for farmer, but Carla says I look more like a deranged lumberjack.” He gestured at the car and trailer. “After we talked about it, we decided we didn’t need the expense of two trips. We brought everything on this one.”

“Things went okay?” It was my way of asking if they’d gotten out of their lease without legal difficulties.

“No big problems. We’ll see a lawyer to make sure everything’s ironed out.” He yawned behind a fist. “Sorry. Not much sleep.”

“I saw your phone message when you got in.”

“I kind of heard you pull in, I think.” Having finished his chores, Cramer approached to give his brother a manly hug that lasted all of one second. “I’ll help you unload your stuff later.”

“We’ll have to move the previous tenants’ stuff out first.” Turning to me he asked, “Did these people just abandon the place?”

“At least one of them is dead.” I gave a brief recap of the situation, ending with, “The littlest girl claims there’s a trapdoor in the cabin. I’m going down there to see if she’s correct.”

“Do you want us to come along?”

I gestured at the loaded vehicle behind me. “Looks like you have lots to do right here.”

Carla came out of the house, wearing jeans and a Northwestern sweatshirt and pulling her long, black hair back into a low ponytail. I noted gray streaks, though she was only thirty. Carla would never consider covering the gray, and on that we agree. Barb and Retta can do as they like; I earned every one of my gray hairs, and the world is welcomed to look at them.

After hugging me and Cramer Carla offered, “I can make coffee. There’s a really cool tin pot in the kitchen, and I want to try it.”

“I’m on a mission,” I said, “but when I get back, I’ll see how well you manage it.”

“It’s a long walk, if I remember,” Bill said.

“Not as long for an adult as it was for a kid. You guys go ahead and get your stuff unloaded. I won’t be long.”

Leaving them to the task, I headed up the hill, rounded the barn, and took the path to the cabin. This time there were no girlish voices, and I entered alone, flashing the light I’d brought with me around the interior. Going directly to the bunk-beds, I knelt and pulled the foam pad off the bottom one. “She’s right,” I muttered. In one corner there was a hasp, padlocked to the bed frame.

I glared at the lock, stymied. If the trapdoor was Ben’s secret, he’d have kept the key with him, probably on the ring the sheriff had found in his jeans pocket.

Glancing around the room, I looked for something shiny. Many people hide a spare key in case they forget or lose the first one. I’d done that a few times myself over the years.

I searched the cabin, feeling along the rafters and examining the walls. After encountering a lot of dirt and many cobwebs, I spotted it almost at the ceiling. Hung on a finish nail, the key blended with the tone of the wood. It was unlikely anyone would notice it, and I could just barely touch it if I flattened my body against the wall and reached up as far as possible.

After a few tries I managed to slide the key off the nail, but it dropped to the floor. I spent a few more minutes lighting the floor with the flashlight in order to see where it fell. I found it in a corner, moved to the trapdoor, and knelt again, unlocking the padlock and removing it.

I felt a moment’s dread at the thought of what I might find down there, but I decided if there was a dead body I’d have smelled it by now. The trapdoor was heavy, and I couldn’t lift it from my crouched position. Standing, I braced my legs, gave a mighty heave on the handle, and pulled upward. When the door was perpendicular to the floor, I gave it a nudge with my hip, sending it onto the bed frame with a crash. As the sound echoed through the cabin, I knelt again, eager to see what was below.

It was a bunker. A crude wooden ladder led down to a dirt floor perhaps eight feet below. The light from the plastic windows didn’t illuminate the space, but I directed my flashlight into the hole. Perhaps ten by ten, the space was half-filled with boxes and crates stacked against the wall opposite the ladder.

With what I’d learned over the last few days about McAdams, I should have known he’d be prepared for Armageddon, whatever that meant to him. It might be terrorists, but it might just as easily be zombies, aliens, or the “gov’mint.”

Climbing clumsily down the ladder, I explored the contents of the bunker. There was food, of course, and bottled water, stacked on a rough shelf supported by stakes driven into the earthen wall. One corner contained a chemical toilet, with the appropriate supplies stacked beside it. An army cot lay folded along one wall, and beside it were a couple of rifles wrapped in clear plastic, presumably to keep them in working condition. Two plastic tubs in another corner held a rolled sleeping bag and camouflage clothing: pants, a jacket, gloves, a hood, and a pair of boots. There was no provision for a woman or children. It was a bunker for one.